Page 27 of Big Rowdy Cowboy

He strokes my clit furiously, growling in my ear that I have to come for him. But it’s not until he tells me to take his big cock that I come with a scream.

His release follows mine, his seed splashing deep into my body as he pumps into me one final time. He collapses beside me but tugs me into his arms.

I rest my head on his shoulder, my body buzzing. “I want a really big family.”

“Good,” he growls. “Because you’re not leaving this bed until you’re pregnant.”

Chapter 15

Zac

Dotty is snoring lightly when I reach in my nightstand to grab the paper I keep there. I know some people use their phones to capture ideas, but I’ve always thought better on paper.

I settle in the chair in the corner of the room so I don’t wake Dotty and start scribbling. Ever since I met Dotty, I’ve had a hundred new ideas every day. The world doesn’t look the same since I fell in love. She hasn’t said it back to me, but I know she feels it. My girl is scared, but I’m patient.

As if my thoughts woke her, she stirs. She sits up in bed, all messy hair and freckles. She’s never looked more gorgeous to me than she does now. She grabs the sheet and holds it over her luscious body. “More song ideas?”

I make a hum of contentment as I scribble more thoughts down. Nothing feels as good to me as writing, except being naked with Dotty, which she currently is. Damn, I’m doing the wrong activity.

“When did you start writing music?” She asks with a yawn.

I start to give her my go-to answer, the one I say in all the interviews. But something stops me. I don’t want her to know Zac, the country musician. I want her to know me, the man. “Sometime in the hospital.”

She calls my name softly and I can’t think about the pity in her voice. Can’t even look at her right now so I grab my guitar instead. The familiar weight of it centers me and allows me to get the words out, “My dad and I were in a car crash years ago. He…didn’t make it.”

Dotty gasps, pressing a hand over her heart. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that.”

“No one does, at least no one outside of town. It’s something I’ve worked hard to make sure never gets mentioned in the media. I don’t want reporters shoving a microphone in my face and asking me about the worst moments of my life.”

She makes an outraged noise, and I lift my head, quickly explaining, “I don’t think you’re like that.”

Dotty is sweet and kind. My girl doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. It was obvious during our entire interview that every question she asked, she was trying to be delicate. Most people who work in the media don’t care about that. They’re around for the juicy soundbite they can play on the air over and over again.

She stands from the bed, grabbing a T-shirt and slipping it over her head. Her panties are the next to go on but thankfully she doesn’t cover those beautiful legs of hers. “I just— the thought of someone doing that to you makes me very angry. I feel protective over you.”

The thought has me smiling. She’s a little slip of a thing, and she’s worried about me. “That makes sense. You did nearly kill me with your car.”

She drops to her knees and cups my jaw, running her fingers through my beard. “You don’t have to be charming right now. It’s OK to be sad.”

Shit, I don’t deserve her. She can see through me with one glance, and that’s unnerving. But then I remember how rare and precious life is. I’m going to do whatever it takes to hold onto my beautiful woman, even if it means baring my heart. “My siblingsand I were adopted. We’re not Maples by blood. My brothers—they remember what life was like before. But I was a baby when the state took us away. I don’t remember anything.”

Sometimes, I feel guilty about that. I feel guilty that I’m not helping my brothers shoulder the burden of our abused, dysfunctional childhood. “In my eyes, Linda and Fred Maple are my real parents. I’ve never known anything different.”

I fiddle with the tuning pegs. Without even thinking about it, my fingers automatically adjust the knobs like I’m about to lead into Rowdy Cowboy. “When I lost him, I spiraled into a dark place. The only thing that comforted me was picking up a guitar. My dad loved Johnny Cash songs, so I determined that I would learn how to play every single one of his songs. After that, I never put my guitar down again. I started writing my own music, and that was it.”

I strum a couple of chords from the song, closing my eyes as I continue, “Eventually, I began doing gigs around town. I’d play parties all night long, come home, collapse into bed around two in the morning after performing at dive bars where I wasn’t even old enough to drink. Then I’d be up again at four to start helping with chores on the farm.”

“You must have been exhausted,” she says softly, like she’s impressed.

“Music saved my life, but I didn’t think I had a right to chase after my dream.” There are still moments when I’m not sure about that one. There are thousands of people all over the world hoping for their dreams to come true. Why am I one of the lucky ones who got what he wanted?

“One morning, Greer woke me up and drove me to the bus station. He gave me a one-way ticket to Nashville and told me not to come home until I’d made something of myself.” I stop the chords there. “He gave permission to chase my dream.”

“And now you write songs that help people across the world.” The soft smile she gives me is filled with so much adoration that all I can do is hope to one day be worthy of that look.

My neck heats up. “I don’t know about that.”

“Well, I do,” she answers with firm conviction. “I’ve read so many stories about how your songs have helped people get through hard things—chemo and radiation, loss, and trauma. You connect with people and that’s a rare gift.”

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